


late night, early morning

by skeleton_twins



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Driving, Established Relationship, Insomnia, Introspection, Late at Night, M/M, Motorcycles, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: After the war, Hermann and Newt are restless, unable to sleep at night, they combat their insomnia by taking midnight rides on Newt's motorcycle.





	late night, early morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freezerjerky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/gifts).



> This idea was based on a thread my friend Lindsey and I had over on twitter a long time ago and they encouraged me to turn it into a fic.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins long after the war clock halts in time, a moment never to be forgotten, capturing history in the making, waiting to be written in textbooks to come. Maybe there will be a footnote that tells his story. Maybe even a paragraph. Glory was never something he sought after. No, that was Dr. Geiszler’s- _ Newt’s _ -ambition, not his. Although, at the moment in time it was difficult to tell whose ambitions belonged to who. Victorious cries ring throughout the hall, in his ears (nothing’s as loud as the pounding heartbeat drumming inside his head, a mere echo of his own, slowly falling into sync as Newton claps his arm around his shoulders and tugs him closer.)  

 

Later after the celebrations stumble, falters in intensity, he lies awake in bed while the rest of the world sleeps. No tossing or turning. His hands folded calmly across his stomach. His eyes are heavy, yet his mind races, hurling towards  _ something  _ (he wonders if this is a feeling he’s used to after all these years with the apocalypse looming over their heads or if he is merely ghost drifting with his lab partner). He’s restless. Trapped in a tin can. Everything hides in the shatterdome, a night sky full of burning stars lost, hidden out of sight under a metal ceiling. 

 

Absently he stretches his arms, limbs long enough for his fingertips to brush against the cool concrete. He draws constellations with his fingers, patterns burnt into his memory from years of studying, looking up into the night sky through a telescope lens. Hermann misses the stars, misses the nights spent climbing out of his window onto the roof to drown out the raised voices. It’s where he could forget about his parents’ arguments, wrap his arms around his bony knees, and start counting, an infinite number he’d never reach. The night sky provided comfort that he never received from his parents. The nights before the accident that left steel pins in his bones. 

 

Hermann knows that he’s not the only soul awake at this hour. If he strains he could hear the faint sounds of stumbling footsteps, drunk stragglers from the party still finding their paths to their rooms. The humming in his chest is louder, a melody that stutters like a skipping heartbeat, an echoing strum of thick fingers over guitar strings. He knows whom it belongs to.

 

His endeavor for sleep crumbles, Hermann forgets his attempt once he tunes everything out other than the pluck of guitar strings. He follows the sounds like a map sketched messily in his brain, directions outline in brightly colored sharpies, the caps chewed, always stuck between teeth. There are traces of chalk too, something of himself coming to the surface, entwine with the marked lines. It leads him back to their lab, to the dotted yellow tape on floors, back to a scratchy voice and steady hands, back to Newton Geiszler. A destination forever configured in Hermann’s future, a fixed point, unchanging even if they try to cut the cords tying their ribs together. Everything always leads back to messy hair and shockingly neat handwriting. Colorful skin with monsters twisting on the surface. Glasses slipping down the slope of a rounded nose and skinny strip of fabric masquerading as ties.

 

It starts with monsters rising from the sea and with blotted ink-stained pages now yellowed letters tucked in his bedside drawers, and a box underneath Newt’s bed. Carried throughout the years to each shatterdome transfer even after their disastrous first meeting, even after sworn declarations from both parties of never wanting to see the other again. 

 

Newt smiles at the sound of the lab door creaking open as if he expected this, expected Hermann’s arrival (perhaps he did, perhaps he hears tappings of his cane on concrete floors instead of guitar strings) and Hermann’s breath catches at the sight of his stretched lips curling into a familiar grin. Something he used to describe as mocking, now Hermann knows better. It’s small, borderline shy, but intimate, a smile that was only his, only directed towards him. 

 

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Newt doesn’t bother waiting for confirmation. Hermann suspects he already knows the answer anyway. The same way Hermann knew that Newton was awake, short legs stretched, dirty combat boots resting atop his desk, his guitar in his arms. “I don’t think my brain has caught the memo yet. Apocalypse ended. World’s saved by two handsome brilliant men. Ten years of sleep to catch up on.” 

 

Hermann leans heavily against his cane, shuffle forwards, closer, edging the yellow broken line. He tuts a feign noise of disapproval, “I believe you’re forgetting Mr. Beckett and Ms. Mori’s roles in stopping the apocalypse. They were much more involved than we were. ”

 

Newt’s fingers release the guitar strings, waving his hand in the air as if to brush away Hermann’s statement. 

 

“Do you have one of those…” He gestures wildly. His hands pushing forward to the point of his palms touching and then stretching outwards, similar to motions of playing the accordion, but Hermann understood what he was asking.

 

“Folding cane.”

 

“Yes!” He snaps his fingers twice. “That.” 

 

“In my desk. Why?” 

 

The grin reappears. “You have a promise to keep, Gottlieb.” 

 

Hermann frowns as Newton scrambles, legs sliding off his desk, replacing his feet with his guitar instead. He bends at the waist, searching for something in one of the drawers before he’s swinging back around holding a helmet. Hermann squints at the dark helmet, there seems to be a litany of stickers covering along the sides. Stars and what appear to be familiar mathematical equations. 

 

He remembers then, a sudden clarity to his alcohol-fueled memories. A mirror reflection of his recollection, but clearer. He’s peeking through blue-tinted stained glass, catching the flashbacks of a sober man. He had been drunk that night, something rare for him, usually he could hold his alcohol decently well. However, that night, he had drowned his sorrows in stolen vodka. Everything at once came crashing down on him, the loss of too many lives from another kaiju attack, another department defunded, another call from his father reprimanding his choice to stay with the PPDC, on a sinking ship. It was there in his fingertips, the failure of his calculations, his numbers had been incorrect, he had been  _ wrong _ .

 

Newton had found him with his head in his hands, sitting at his desk without the lights on, the sickening yellow glow emitting from the kaiju tanks washing the room in it, swallowing him whole. 

 

He had tried to convince him to leave with him that night, only for a short trip into the city to get away, on what Hermann referred to his motorcycle as his “death machine”. 

 

Hermann remembers now. The promise slurring from his tongue. A promise that Newton had clung to, Hermann learns through the drift, used for motivation to keep pushing on even when nights like these occurred. 

 

_ “If we ever win this war, I’ll go on a ride with you on your bloody death machine.”  _

 

Newton tosses the helmet at him and Hermann startles, surprising them both when he manages to catch it with one hand. It lands ungracefully with a thump smacking him right in the center of his chest. He cradles it with one hand against his chest, peering down at it. The helmet looks brand new.  

 

A little mental push and Hermann discovers the truth within Newton’s memories, that he had bought it the next night and kept it in his desk drawer after all these years.

 

Newton smiles something almost blinding when Hermann pretends to be reluctant but agrees to uphold his drunken promise. His smile is too radiant, forces Hermann to duck his head, forces him to avert his eyes. There’s something else there. Something that feels like love. It has always been there the past nearly decade. 

 

It’s the night where everything comes tumbling down. Barriers between them crumble at their feet. Ten years worth of misunderstandings resolved, and their penchant to pretend to hate the other disappears as Hermann wraps his arms around Newton’s waist, squeezing him tight, resting his chin on top of Newton’s shoulder. The moon was bright. The world sleeping soundly and safe for the first time since monsters came from deep beneath the ocean.

 

Newton kisses him for the first time that night. A tentative touch, barely a brush between their lips before Newton’s tugging him closer when Hermann kisses back, kissing him fiercely as if his whole life depended on it. As if he has been waiting forever. Hermann realizes he has. They both had. 

 

Hermann doesn’t want Newt to ever stop kissing him like  _ that _ .

 

The stickers fade over time, curling at the corners, but the helmet stays with them, just as sturdy as before, travels in boxes as they embrace their new promising future without monsters threatening to tear it completely down. 

 

The city they pick to settle down never tires. Never sleeps at night. Always thrumming with energy. It reminds them of Hong Kong which was what had lured them both to it in the first place, like moths to blinking neon lights. It reminded them of a home where home didn’t exist for them anymore.

 

Most nights it’s easy to sleep. Other nights are more challenging. Their heart races, awoken from night terrors. Unnerving suspicions of lingering eyes still watching them. As if their minds hadn’t fully escaped from the drift, from the hivemind, still locked in that swirling blue nightmare. The mattress seems too soft like their bodies will sink further and further until they disappear completely. Rooms too large. They can only find comfort in the walls of the shatterdome, the cramped quarters, stiff beds with springs poking through. Those nights their home is a little too peaceful. Too still. The world was saved, but they couldn’t shake the war from their minds, couldn’t get rid of the underlying tension in their muscles, their bones, anxiety from the constant alert of impending doom.

 

Those nights they don’t sleep. Those nights Hermann’s standing barefoot, wearing pajamas that don’t belong to him, scribbling away at the chalkboard paint coating the kitchen walls. He calculates, to be absolutely sure, that the breach is closed, the chances of it reopening. Newt finds him there, he always does, either guides him back to bed or grabs his motorcycle keys hanging by the door.

 

That night though nightmares aren’t the reason why they leave for a nightly ride on Newt’s bike (Hermann doesn’t think of it as anything other than Newt’s motorcycle now, no longer considered a death machine not since the drift, not since the first night Hermann rode it clinging to Newt.) 

 

It simply was the perfect night for it. 

 

Neither had spoken a word, just a mere glance between each other, a wordless question, unspoken except in their minds (a side effect from the drift). Hermann nods and Newt grabs the keys, slips on his leather jacket, still torn and ripped in the places from the night they saved the world together (Newton doesn’t want to fix it and Hermann doesn’t bother to ask anymore. He understands why he doesn’t want to, it’s a memento from that night.) 

 

It doesn’t become a nightly routine, but taking evening rides on Newt’s motorcycle becomes a common thing in the Dr. Geiszler-Gottlieb home. A typical solution to sleepless nights or a simple date night out of their home. 

 

Hermann still wears the helmet Newton bought him years ago, covered in glow in the dark constellations. Tendrils of hair escape in the front smashed against his forehead, pinned beneath the helmet. He knows how his hair will look once he removes the helmet. He remembers the first time taking it off. Newton’s expression. A wide grin, toothy, the only warning before the loud bark of laughter that followed, that still rings in his ears whenever he recalls the memory. He always remembers his touch. The way Newton stepped closer to him than ever before, trying and failing to fix his hair, to smooth it over in shape.

 

Newton never bothered buying a helmet despite how much Hermann scolds him. (“It’s dangerous Newton. It’s not safe.” He utters, repeats every time Newton takes his hand to steady him as Hermann slips onto the back of the motorcycle. 

 

“Yeah. Maybe. But rockstars don’t wear helmets.” 

 

Rockstars don’t typically have six PhDs and drift with an entirely unknown alien race, but Hermann doesn’t mention these things. Newton hears it though regardless of Hermann not speaking it aloud. Hermann thinks too loudly, something Newton reminds him constantly.)

 

There’s a sacrifice they faced from residing in a city so similar to their previous home in Hong Kong. One they weighed heavily before moving: to live in a starless city that made it easier to breathe. The thrum of the busy streets, the buzzing of neon signs hanging outside of restaurants and tattoo parlors. There’s smoke polluting the air, buildings blocking the view of the night sky, a seamless transfer into a city that reminds them of days when monsters still roam the streets emerging from miles beneath the deep blue sea. 

 

Hermann understands that this won’t be their future. That this city is transitionary, nothing permanent. They’re too restless for a simple cottage near the beach just yet. The stars will be there, they’re waiting for them. (Perhaps they’ll grow weary of the noise, of the constant lights peering through windows, cutting through the darkness. Perhaps they find themselves drawn to the ocean, calling them back home to a seaside view and evenings spent on the shore, staring through telescope lens up at the night sky). 

 

The closest Hermann can touch the stars here is the blurry lights as they drive by, if he releases his tight hold around Newton’s waist, he can reach out, stretch his arms out towards, spread his fingers and let the light shine through the empty spaces. Vibrant colors from neon signs, a splash of color in the dark, melting into white blurs as Newt speeds pass streetlamps marking the edges of the roads. It’s enough to pretend they’re fallen stars, burning gases captured in the corner of his eye, mere fleeting glimpses.

 

He doesn’t dare let go.

 

There are spaces where he belongs, positions that his hands falls into place easily on Newton’s body when they’re like this-his chest pressing against Newt’s spine, his legs touching the back of Newt’s thighs- as if they’re meant to be there. His wiry arms curled around Newton’s soft stomach, head cradled in the valley between Newton’s neck and shoulder. Muscles and tendons stretched from bone to bone, a place his mouth is overly-familiar with, where he has kissed along before, repeatedly leaving behind scarlet stains in shape of his mouth from overpriced lipstick on Newt’s bare skin. Cheek pressed against Newton’s sturdy shoulder, firm, his head tilted to the side as he stares, searching for his man-made stars. 

 

“You hungry?” The light breeze carries Newt’s question, a whisper barely heard between the wind and hum of the engine beneath them.

 

He tries to be loud, speak over the sound of the wind whooshing in their ears, but his answer is drowned out regardless. Hermann doesn’t know if Newton had heard him, but the motorcycle weaves through traffic, between lanes, slowing down as he maneuvers them into a nearly vacant parking lot of an open twenty-four hours convenient mart.

 

Hermann clings even after Newt switches off the engine, delaying the inevitable movement. It’s difficult letting go, of pulling away from Newt’s warmth. He wants to stay there for infinity, his body curled around Newt’s, counting each time Newt exhales.  _ One breath. Two breaths. Three. _ His cheek pressed against Newton’s shoulder, cool leather touching his skin. Newt lingers, allows for seconds to pass, letting them stretch into minutes, for them to both enjoy this quiet moment. His limbs are frozen stiff, his joints ache when he finally releases Newt from his embrace. 

 

There’s a buzzing coming from the lights, echoing overhead as Hermann ambles down the empty aisles. Stretching his legs to drive away the stiffness in his bones that follows after every ride. His cane taps against the floor. Little noises that fill the silence. Newton’s a few paces ahead near the section of food ready to be served, peering through glass containers, smudging the surface with his fingertips, staring longingly at greasy food that makes Hermann's stomach churn just from merely glancing. 

 

The bell chimes, announcing their exit. Headlights from cars passing briefly illuminate their steps, their path to Newt’s awaiting motorcycle. Hermann smiles to himself at the sight of his husband with his arms full, trying to hold too many items at once. A fountain cup in one hand and a greasy slice of pizza haphazardly wrapped in a napkin in the other. 

 

Newton leans against the motorcycle, polishing off the pizza in a few bites, crumpling the napkin with one hand before stuffing it in the pocket of his jeans. It’s an unshakable habit. The constant hunger from years of rations. They both forget that there’s no longer a rush, that time is still moving yes, but not at such a hasten pace, that they can slow down. Chew and swallow. Savor. Not simply eat for fuel to keep pushing on, that there’s work to be done and eating merely slowed them both down. 

 

He takes a loud sip of his cherry Slurpee and holds out the styrofoam cup in Hermann’s direction, mouth already stained red from the drink. It’s  _ distracting _ . Something Hermann struggles to tear his gaze from. It reminds him of the lipstick he wears only for Newton, of the nights spent kissing until their mouths are sore from it.  

 

“Want some?” 

 

Hermann declines with a shake of his head. He already has a drink, a cold carbonated beverage, something he rarely indulges in. Condensation gathers along the sides of the can, wetting his fingertips.

 

“No, thank you, dear.” He points to Newton’s mouth, refrains from reaching out fully to trace Newton’s lips with his thumb. “Your mouth.”

 

Newt frowns as he ducks down, peering into the side mirror before straightening once more leaning against the seat of the motorcycle. His red mouth stretches into a toothy grin at Hermann. The tip of his tongue also tinted red, poking between white teeth, a stark contrast. 

 

He gently shakes the cup a bit. “Not even a little taste?” 

 

Hermann raises his own drink to his lips, taking a sip in lieu of an answer. 

 

“You’re missing out, Hermann.”

 

“I doubt that. I hardly think I would enjoy such a sugary drink. ” 

 

“I know.” Newton doesn’t have the self-restraint that Hermann convinced himself he owns. His arm stretching, burying what little distance is between them, reaching upward and out for Hermann. The pad of his thumb brushing along Hermann’s thin lower lip, dragging across achingly slow.

 

“I just really want to see your mouth bright red,” Newton admits. 

 

“You do. Frequently.” 

 

He smiles, something a little knowingly, a shared secret unspoken, “Yeah, but not like this.” 

 

If Hermann didn’t know better, and he does, or like to believe he does, he would think that his husband is trying to seduce him. The efforts are moot, of course, since Newton knows that he’s got Hermann wrapped around his finger, curled around his beautiful brain, that Hermann was helplessly in love with him from the beginning even when he disliked the man. 

 

Hermann kisses Newton’s thumb instead and hears Newton’s breath hitch softly.

 

The drink almost ends up being forgotten, slowly slipping through Newt’s fingers when they both lean forward. Hermann catches the drink, rights it, claps his fingers over Newt’s to hold it steady when he brings it to his lips, wrapping his mouth around the plastic straw.

 

Newton’s pupils expand, darkening his eyes as a faint blush pinkens his cheeks. 

 

“Satisfied?” Hermann feels a touch foolish when he sticks out his tongue.

 

His husband shakes his head, a little dazed at the sight. “Mhmm, not really, think you might need another taste.” 

 

The red drink ends up spilled on the concrete regardless as Newt tugs him closer.

 

He shivers during the kiss. He doesn’t feel cold though. He feels alive. Overwhelmed with Newton’s lips sliding against his. A slow kiss, melting into something personal, something intimate that belongs in their home, behind windows with the curtains closed shut. It’s not a filthy kiss, far from it, but there are hints of something else building underneath, barely contained. Newton’s teeth nipping at his lower lip. A sensory overload that leaves him trembling. He tastes cherry, tastes sugar, almost as if he can feel every grain from the drink against his tongue and sweetness that just  _ belongs  _ to his darling Newton. 

 

Hermann shivers again, this time Newton notices and begins shrugging out of his worn leather jacket. Hermann regrets his body’s autonomic reaction, driving Newton’s warmth away. With great reluctance he lets his arms drop back to his sides as Newton steps away from him. 

 

The warmth returns when Newt tugs his jacket over Hermann’s shoulders, easing his limbs into it. It doesn’t fit. Never has. Despite the numerous occasions Newton has offered it to Hermann. It’s too short in the sleeves, leaving his pale bony wrists peeking out of the dark leather. Tight around his shoulders, but it’s not uncomfortable, not when Newton’s scent clings to it from years of wearing it. Not with the heat emitting from it, curling around him like Newton’s strong arms.

 

Newton smiles at him and Hermann realize that his home belongs not on rooftops gazing up at stars, not with the looming threat of the world ending, resting on their shoulders in cramped labs or large sleepless cities or even small cottages by the sea, but there with Newton smiling at him. That’s where he has always belonged, right by Newton’s side.

 

“Your mouth’s red.” 

 

“Is it?” Hermann blushes and decides to trust Newton for his word instead of checking his reflection for himself.

 

“Uh, huh. You look good though. Ready to go, big guy?” 

 

Hermann nods.

 

This evening’s ride feels a lot like their first date with Hermann glued to Newt’s back, wearing his leather jacket, (although that first time riding Newt’s motorcycle being their first date is still up for debate. Newt disagrees, “We didn’t  _ know  _ that it was a date at the time.”

 

“We kissed, Newton, it was most certainly a date.”)

 

There were minor differences, of course, Hermann’s mouth wasn't slightly stained red from cherry Slurpees, he didn’t dare press soft kisses against Newt’s neck, smiling against his skin. The first time on Newton’s bike he never shut his eyes the entirety of the ride, much too frightened, but now, now his eyes are half-lidded, almost closed shut with his chin resting atop Newton’s firm shoulder.

 

He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Newton. There’s no struggle, no lingering doubts whether he can touch, allow himself this just this once. He stays close, pressing himself right against Newton’s back, kissing freely and without reserve.

 

Hermann licks at his lips, still tasting the sugar lingering, before pressing another open-mouthed kiss against Newt’s shoulder, more firmly this time, as if maybe he could stain the thin white material with the shape of his lips.

 

Newt shivers, whether it’s from the cool breeze or from Hermann’s warm mouth, Hermann doesn’t know, but no complaints fall from his tongue. In fact, Hermann catches Newt’s reflection in the side mirror, finds him smiling wide, deep laughter lines almost lost in stubble curving around his mouth. Eyes glistening with mirth. 

 

Newt opts for the scenic route home, it’s longer this way, but Hermann doesn’t mind. He’s not ready to go home. Not quite yet.

 

It’s quiet. Other than the loud engine beneath their thighs, but soon the noise is just a soft purring, nothing but background noise, a hum captured in their ears for a split second and it’s gone swirling in the wind. There’s a tranquility in these late night rides that seem to settle their restless bones. Something soothing with how empty the roads are, there’s barely any traffic, everyone else has gone home, to sleep soundly in their beds. At that moment, it feels like they’re the only people that exist. 

 

Hermann doesn’t want that. Not really. Not after they just save the world from monsters and extinction. It’s too lonely of thought to be the only survivors, for their efforts to be wasted. For a second, though, being alone on empty streets, clinging to Newton is their only solace, their only escape, and that’s what it feels, Hermann realizes with his arms tight around Newt’s waist, like he’s escaping with him, going anywhere they wish, anywhere they desire because the world is safe now, no longer their burden, their responsibility. 

 

The road ahead is winding, twists and curves, overlooking the river beside them. Surrounding trees shelter them, blocking the morning’s first rays of sunlight from reaching them. Newton accelerates as if he’s chasing it, before dawn breaks.

 

Newton’s determined, he always has been, and of course between Newton Geiszler and nature, chances are Newt will inevitably win that battle and he does. He reaches the outskirts of the park, turning off the rumbling engine in one swift twist of his wrist before dawn erupts across the sky.

 

It’s a bittersweet sight. Out here away from the city, Hermann can finally see the stars again. But the stars begin to disappear in the night sky, the pitch blackness fades, lightens just at the horizon before the sky bursts with colors. Soft hues painting the sky as the sun rises, melting oranges and yellows, blush pinks and touches of lavender in between.

 

They sit there, in solitude, as the morning sun pours over them, casting them in a warm yellow glow. Hermann stays awake just long enough to watch the sky shift colors, long enough to press a delicate kiss behind Newt’s ear, and after that his heavy eyelids flutter under the weight of sleep.

 

He stirs awake when Newt shifts, his cheek planted firmly against Newt’s shoulder blade, it feels as if his world is tilting on its axis as Newt settles once more. He feels Newt’s body shake as he clears his throat, softly calling his name.

 

“Hermann? You awake?” He peers over his shoulder.

 

He buries his face into Newton’s back, squeezing his eyes shut. They can’t stay here, he’s aware of that, with the morning comes people, strangers crowding the park and unwelcome noise filling the quiet, but Hermann doesn’t want to break the spell this evening held just yet, not for infinity. 

 

He uncurls his limbs from Newton’s waist, instead, he’s reaching forward as he tilts his head to gaze up at his husband. He drags his fingertips, skirting them along Newton’s jaw, over the stubble, over his chin.

 

His fingers rest splayed against Newton’s cheek, cupping it. There’s a tiny sliver of sunlight pushing between their mouths and if Hermann leans forwards, he might be able to taste it. 

 

Newt twists his head as far as he can, it must be uncomfortable, kissing at this awkward angle and Hermann knows he won’t last long without straining the muscles, but Newton’s mouth is warm and wet, and perfect. 

 

Newt teases with every kiss, brushing his lips against Hermann like he’s torn between pulling away and leaving Hermann with wanting more but locked here in this moment neither one could deny the other anything. Not tonight. Not this morning. 

 

He kisses him slowly, patiently, endlessly. 

 

It feels like forever in a kiss. Time encapsulated between their mouths. 

 

Eventually forever must end, they must part for air, they must leave this park, switch the engine on and return to their temporary home. Nothing is permanent after all, not even them, but this memory of tonight will last as long as they both breathe. 

 

“I love you.” Hermann murmurs softly, almost a whisper as if he’s afraid to break the morning’s silence.

 

Newton hears, he always does through their drift, and he kisses Hermann’s temple firmly, pouring the words into the kiss before he tears himself away, turning around to start the motorcycle again.

 

Hermann settles in position, falls back into it easily, effortlessly. Once more wrapping his arms around Newt’s waist, tighter than before, and resting his chin on top of Newt’s shoulder. 

 

The whirling of the engine could lure him to slumber if he lets it. His own personal midnight lullaby. But there’s a thrum of adrenaline pulsing, keeping him awake, a slight fear of falling off the back of Newt’s motorcycle is enough to keep exhaustion at bay. 

 

_ I love you.  _ Ghost words echo through his mind, pushes past through the numbers still ever present, strikes through everything else: the other emotions and white noise in between, brings the familiar voice to the forefront of his brain. He smiles against Newt’s shoulder, places another kiss against it through his thin shirt, feeling the cool material against his lips. 

 

His mind drifts, repeating the sentiment back in his head, while Newt drives, steers them back home. The road stretches ahead, a grey blur in his peripheral and hints of broken yellow lines that remind him of their lab back in Hong Kong. No divided lines anymore. Nothing could keep them separated now. 

 

If Hermann shifts, presses his ear against the curve of Newton’s spine, he could tune out everything else, could listen to Newt’s steady heartbeat, and if he focuses, he still could hear the faint pluck of guitar strings reverberating through the drift. 

 

He’ll follow the sounds forever, all the way home on the back of Newt’s motorcycle.


End file.
